


when you're on top of me (hands on my thighs)

by a_gay_poster



Category: Naruto
Genre: First Time, M/M, PWP, Praise Kink, Prompt Fill, Riding, Second Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26680993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_gay_poster/pseuds/a_gay_poster
Summary: He’s meant to be an expert in stamina. The Handsome Green Devil of the Leaf Village, the man who’s trained his body to the point of punishment, who can take anything and bounce right back from it!… Anything except, apparently, Gaara whispering sweet nothings into his ear.Lee discovers that he likes it when Gaara tells him what a good job he's doing. Likes it too much, maybe.
Relationships: Gaara/Rock Lee
Comments: 38
Kudos: 347





	when you're on top of me (hands on my thighs)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a smut prompt fill on Tumblr. The prompt was: Riding with a praise kink.
> 
> Title is from [Killin' Me by Matt & Kim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5qmhO3Yczk).

This isn’t what Lee expected, when Gaara asked to spend time with him after a Kage meeting. He thought they’d go back to Gaara’s hotel room—Gaara isn’t even sharing a room with Kankuro this time—curl up side-by-side on the bed, order room service, and maybe watch a movie on the grainy black-and-white television. Lee doesn’t have a television in his apartment, and Gaara doesn’t have one at his home in Suna, either, so on the rare occasions when Gaara is in the village, watching movies has become something of a special treat. Someone they only do with one another. Something for just them. 

In the image of this visit he’d painted in his mind, he pictured them holding hands, cuddling, and, if he was feeling particularly daring, maybe even kissing for a bit. Their courtship had been … rather prolonged and slow-moving, owing to the complexities of distance and each of their duties to their respective countries. And of course Gaara had a history of hurt, one that made Lee endeavor to treat him all the more tenderly, with all the care he needed and reassurance that Lee would _never_ cross his boundaries. No matter how he might have ached to transgress on Gaara’s skin. No matter how heated or lingering his kisses. 

They’d kissed five times so far, each one deeper and more intense than the last, each one seeming to bring them closer and closer to a precipice of something _more_. But each time, one or both of them—mostly Lee, if only because he feared that Gaara would think him too pushy—would pull away when things got too heated. Make an excuse. Divert their attention back to the shadows on the TV screen. Turn hands that clutched at clothes and skated bare skin into fingers gently, chastely twined. It was almost a routine by this point, something predictable. 

What Lee _didn’t_ predict was that the second the door was shut behind them, Gaara would turn to him with a look that was all hunger and pull Lee down on top of him on the bedspread. Lee didn’t predict that Gaara’s mouth would be hard and hot and hungry on his, biting and nipping and insistent. He didn’t predict that he’d end up naked in the blink of an eye, sprawled on top of Gaara’s equally naked body, or how quickly he’d go from pleasantly startled to desperately, achingly hard.

And he _definitely_ didn’t expect that Gaara would be already slick and ready for him, guiding him with one small, hot hand to thrust inside while the last inches of Lee’s jumpsuit leg were still dangling from his ankle. Even though Lee protested that he needed to prepare him first—He’d read about that! He’d even borrowed one of Kakashi-sensei’s horrible books, much to his own mortification!—Gaara just gave him another smoldering kiss and murmured against his lips, “I’ve been thinking about this all week.”

Not that Lee is complaining about any of these things he didn’t plan for, he thinks, as Gaara tightens his ankles around his backside, urging him closer. Because _Gaara_ clearly planned for all of it, right down to the condom he’d unwrapped with clever fingers and slid down Lee’s shaft so quickly Lee had barely noticed its presence. And it’s a good thing he planned that, too, because the heat of Gaara is _searing_ , and Lee imagines that—if he were subject to it with no barrier—he’d be even more perilously close to the edge than he already is. He pushes in deep, mind spinning, and Gaara throws his head back with a little moan. 

No, he definitely isn’t complaining. 

The room is on the top floor of the hotel, the curtains drawn tight against the streetlamps flickering to life below. Lee focuses on the pattern of their heavy fabric, the mundanity of it, trying to distract himself from the heat threatening to overwhelm his every sense. Everything’s happening so _fast_.

He tries to slow it. He pulls out and pushes back in with a steady, even rhythm, feeling the clench of Gaara’s hands on his shoulders, the tension of his knees around his waist. Why they put this off so long, Lee has no idea. It feels _incredible_ , and as he looks down, he thinks—hopes—he sees that same feeling reflected in the minute shifts of Gaara’s expressions, a tremulous sort of vulnerability. 

Gaara’s eyelids are fluttering with every surge of Lee inside him, the pattern of the dark of his eyelids and the light of his irises all Lee can focus on, staring at it like it contains some deeper meaning, some coded secret he has yet to decipher. A deeper thrust invites a quicker blink, a slow drag receives a sultry slitting of Gaara’s eyes in response. 

Lee shifts his hips slightly, so he’s pushing just the tiniest bit _up_ as he moves in, seeking something he only knows about from books and his own tentative, shameful self-explorations. He knows he finds it when Gaara’s breath hitches, when the fingers leaving bruises on his shoulders turn into the bite of nails. 

“That’s so good,” Gaara whispers, and Lee can feel his body moving with the words from _inside_. 

Something hot and hurried and overwhelming grabs Lee’s lower belly in a vice grip all at once. His hips stutter, interrupting his smooth rhythm. 

“That’s perfect. You’re perfect.” 

Lee comes with Gaara’s name on his lips. 

Gaara gives him a look that’s impossible to read, a sort of pleased smugness playing around the corners of his lips, a little question in his eyes. Lee gapes at him silently for a minute, and nearly thinks to apologize as he pulls out. 

He ties off the condom and throws it in the room’s small wicker trashcan before he notices Gaara hasn’t come yet. Heat climbs his already lobster-red chest and burns across his cheeks. He practically falls back onto the mattress between Gaara’s still-spread legs to finish him off with his hands and mouth. More hands than mouth, if he’s being honest, because up-close, Gaara is bigger than he expected. Gaara is a rather small person, all his not-inconsiderable strength contained in compact form and wiry muscles, short-ish and skinny. His dick … is none of those things. It’s heavy and thick, and it fills Lee’s hand when he moves to stroke it. 

When Lee dared to imagine Gaara’s dick—which was not often, because he preferred to think of his most precious person only with the highest respect!—he didn’t imagine its size making his jaw click and ache. He can’t fit all of it in his mouth on his first try, nor his second. Though with practice, he thinks with a subdued shiver, he hopes to be able to. 

His impulse afterwards, once he’s swallowed and licked the remaining bitter spend from Gaara’s trembling skin, is to launch into an apologetic speech. But Gaara just tugs him close and pushes a lock of hair behind Lee’s ear, murmuring, “That was wonderful.” 

Those words make Lee’s body warm all over again.

* * *

Weeks later, Lee is still embarrassed to have been such a quick shot. He ruminates on it, turning the events of that evening around in his mind to the point of obsession, considering it from every angle. 

He’s meant to be an expert in stamina. The Handsome Green Devil of the Leaf Village, the man who’s trained his body to the point of punishment, who can take anything and bounce right back from it!

… Anything except, apparently, Gaara whispering sweet nothings into his ear. 

He knows that first times can be quick for the uninitiated. But honestly, on the rare occasions he ever pictured himself doing something _like that_ with Gaara (a thought so overwhelming, so distracting, that he was liable to get nothing else done for the rest of the day, unable to subdue his body’s natural expressions of youth through even the most rigorous of training regimens or the most frigid of showers), he assumed it would be the other way around. He knows Gaara is unused to contact, still learning to touch and be touched after spending years insulated by his armor of sand. Lee thought he might even need to be the one reassuring Gaara afterwards, comforting him and telling him that it was just fine, that it wasn’t the duration of the passion that made the experience, but rather the quality and emotion of the act. 

Gaara said nothing of the sort, after their all-too-brief coupling. It wasn’t in his nature to give reassurance or impassioned, romantic speeches. But the whole rest of the evening, even as they picked an old classic movie from the hotel’s video selection, even as Gaara called down for room service and answered the door in his Kage robes and nothing else, Gaara kept murmuring those small praises into Lee’s ear. Simple little things, as if nothing went wrong at all: “It felt so good,” and “I really liked that,” and “I can’t wait for next time.” Phrases that made Lee’s ears burn just as hot as other, more exhausted parts of his body. 

And Lee knows—knows! Because he planned this conversation on the other side—that he has nothing to be embarrassed of. After all, he _did_ enjoy himself, and clearly Gaara had a fine time, too, because when they awoke the next morning he lingered, stroking Lee’s thighs and the soft, scarred insides of his forearms until Kankuro nearly broke the door down, yelling something about timetables and travel weather. And yet … 

And yet Lee has a notion that he still could have done _more_ , been _better_. It’s that same voice in the back of his mind that pushes him through the most grueling moments of his self-rules. It’s telling him that Gaara deserved something more than what he got. That maybe he needs more than what Lee can give him, unless Lee rises to the challenge.

Well. Rock Lee never backs down from a challenge. 

An imperfect first performance—no matter that Gaara called it (and him) ‘perfect’—is nothing more than an invitation to practice. If the first time was already truly perfect, what excuse would they have to try it again? And Lee can’t say he isn’t looking forward to this new form of training, to seeking that perfection. 

So when it comes time for their next visit, when Lee has a mission in Suna and is invited to the Kazekage’s home for ‘dinner and drinks’ (despite the fact that neither of them drink), he has a plan all worked out. 

They don’t even make it to the table, much less through the meal proper. Gaara’s standing at the stove when Lee comes in, and their stare across the kitchen counter is so heated that Kankuro takes one look at the two of them and excuses himself, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t wait up!” as the door slams behind him. 

Lee is only dimly aware of the racket. He only has eyes for Gaara, who’s now killing the stove’s burners with his sand and cutting around the countertop to lock his hands around Lee’s waist. He licks his lips, then cranes upward to lick Lee’s instead. 

He’s still warm from the outdoors—he must have just gotten home before Lee arrived—and he smells like dust and smoky oil. Lee doesn’t have much time to focus on his scent, though, because Gaara starts kissing him more deeply, walking him backwards up the hall to where Lee assumes his bedroom must be, sand catching Lee’s ankles whenever he stumbles. 

“Ah, Gaara?” Lee mumbles against his lips, in between the searching swipes of Gaara’s tongue in his mouth. 

Gaara pulls back just slightly, his hand on the doorknob to the room behind Lee’s back. He tilts his head, an invitation to continue. 

“I want to try something different,” Lee announces. “I’ll be on top this time.” 

“Different?” A faint line of confusion draws itself between Gaara’s hairless brows. “You were on top last time.” 

The structure of that sentence would be argumentative in any other voice, but in Gaara’s flat rasp it comes across as simply stating a fact. 

“That’s fine, though, if that’s what you want.” Gaara wets his lips again, presses his body up against Lee’s for another kiss. Behind Lee, the door eases open, and he nearly falls through. “I liked it.” 

Lee’s blood burns hot within him. He has to remind himself not to be distracted by the words, nor by the desire to investigate Gaara’s bedroom. It’s smaller than he expected, given the size of the house. The bed is neatly made, as if it’s never been slept in. 

“Ah, that is not quite what I meant. Since I was so, um … quick, last time—” Lee blushes profusely, the pain of admitting his failings aloud palpable. “—I thought I could be on top, but that you could be … inside. Me, that is. So I can pace things better. I want you to enjoy yourself, too!” 

Gaara cocks his head. The look in his eyes is searching. He tangles his fingers with Lee’s and turns, leading the way to the bed. 

“I enjoyed myself,” he says softly. “All the way back to Suna, I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on your face when you came.” 

Lee’s knees nearly buckle. The door shuts behind them with a little _snick_ of the lock. 

“But show me what you mean.” Gaara sits down on the edge of his pristine bedsheets, introducing what Lee thinks must be the first wrinkles they’ve ever seen, and pats the mattress beside him, inviting Lee to follow. “I’m sure I’ll like it just as much.”

Lee doesn’t accept the invitation. Instead he climbs onto Gaara’s lap and straddles him, face-to-face, meeting his eyes with a boldness that surprises even himself. Although he left his weights by the front door, he still holds himself aloft a little bit, wary of putting too much of his bulk on Gaara’s thin legs. He doesn’t want to cause Gaara any discomfort, however slight. 

He doesn’t think he can muster any further words to describe what he means. His face is already burning. So he just raises his hips and then lowers them, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Gaara’s mouth. 

“Like this.” 

Gaara’s eyes widen just fractionally. His mouth slackens, and inside Lee can see the pink wetness of his tongue, the white shine of his teeth. 

Suddenly, Lee is being lifted in the air as Gaara rearranges himself to sit at the head of the bed. It takes Lee a moment to realize that it’s the sand holding him up and not Gaara’s own hands. He waits patiently, suspended in mid-air, for Gaara to get comfortable propped up against the pillows, before he’s set back down in Gaara’s lap. 

The gourd is somewhere back in the kitchen, so the sand that just lifted him must be the last remnants of Gaara’s sand armor shedding, because the skin of his hands and face was very soft just moments ago. Or else he just keeps random sand lying around his house for his convenience. 

“Is that … ?” Lee balks, eyeing the sand now piled inert on the bedspread, uncertain how to finish his sentence. The last time they did this, Lee wasn’t aware of the sand’s presence at all, everything was so hurried. But now that he has the clarity of mind to consider it, it’s a little … unsettling. The sand seems to have a mind of its own at times. It’s almost like there’s a third party in the room with them. And then of course there’s the fact that Gaara used to think the sand was inhabited by his mother’s spirit … 

Gaara seems to read at least part, if not all, of Lee’s apprehension from the soundless working of his mouth, because he flicks his wrist in a shooing gesture. The sand goes rolling off the bed and vanishes under the door frame with a soft hiss. 

“Better?” 

Lee grins at him. “Much.” 

“Good.” Then Gaara grabs the collar of Lee’s jumpsuit and tugs him down for a kiss. 

The undressing goes slower this time. Gaara’s motions are almost leisurely as he unzips Lee’s flak jacket and suit, then shimmies out of his own light canvas shirt and pants. The light is better in here than in the hotel room, the sun setting later in the south and the curtains in Gaara’s high, round windows thin and gauzy. The natural light paints Gaara’s disheveled hair copper and turns his scars to shining gold. 

Gaara’s skin is not nearly so extensively marked as Lee’s is, but there is still evidence of his life as a shinobi on his pale, bare skin. There’s a streak down one cheek, hairline thin, where Lee’s heel grazed him across the face during their first match. More prominently, there’s a starburst pattern on the front of his shoulder, the place where Sasuke Uchiha struck him with a chidori all those many years ago. The scar stretches out across his skin like a lightning field, fractal branches winding down his bicep and across his left pectoral. Lee traces the trail with his fingers, his body suffused with a reverence that borders on the worshipful. There are other marks further down and out, mostly on his arms, little nicks and divots all full of that warm, golden light. Lee wishes to know the story behind each of them. He imagines, in time, that he will. 

Though not today, because right now, Gaara is tipping his head back at the sensation of Lee’s fingers lightly trailing his skin, breaking out in goosebumps and shivery with need. 

“That’s good,” he says on a sighing exhale. His legs shift beneath Lee’s thighs. His cock, swollen and red, bobs eagerly between them. 

Lee clenches the muscles of his thighs instinctively, an old training trick to stave off the whims of a youthful body. It helps only marginally. His dick throbs, just centimeters away from Gaara’s. 

He wants this to last—desperately, he does—but if he doesn’t get a move on, they might not even make it to the main event. He pictures taking them both in hand, stroking them together like that, all slick heat and thin skin. His fingers twitch as if to reach for them both. He drops his hand, fists it instead in the bedsheets. Not today, not with the pressure that he’s placed upon himself, when it would feel too much like a competition. This needs to be mutual, and for it to feel properly mutual for Lee, Gaara needs to come first. 

He pulls back reluctantly to reach for his vest. 

“Where are you going?” Gaara’s eyes snap wide immediately. He grabs Lee’s wrist in one fine-boned hand, his grip fierce. 

“I just need to get the—” Lee’s tongue trips over the words. “—the _supplies_.” 

“I have condoms and lubricant right here.” 

Of course he does. 

Gaara reaches behind his back and under the pillows. He holds out a small glass vial, a few foil packets spread between his fingers like shuriken. 

Lee wonders how it is that Gaara has such confidence in these matters. After all, it’s only his second time, too—they’ve discussed at least that much, aware of their equal inexperience. But of course, Gaara has never had any trouble getting what he wants. He’ll ask for it if he can get away with it, but he’ll demand it if he has to. Lee’s path to his own desires has always been … more complex than that. More crooked. 

“Oh.” Lee settles back in Gaara’s lap, and Gaara gives him a pleased, placated look, that little hint of a smirk curling the corners of his lips. 

Lee slicks his fingers perfunctorily and sets about stretching himself. This is something he’s done before, though only ever in the privacy of his bedroom, and certainly not with piercing green eyes staring him down. Despite the audience, the motions are familiar, if not a small amount mechanical. He closes his eyes to better appreciate the scissoring stretch, trying to best gauge his readiness to take Gaara’s girth. 

It’s because his eyes are shut that he misses the approach of Gaara’s slim fingers. He jumps when they skate wetly past his balls, slipping over the taut skin of his perineum to touch the place where his own fingers disappear inside himself.

“What are you—?”

“Can I?” Gaara whispers, fingertips circling Lee’s rim, pressing just gently, like he plans to slip them inside right beside Lee’s own. 

“Ah—” There’s no harm in it, surely. It’s just that Gaara did this for himself last time, so Lee assumed it was his own responsibility. And furthermore … “—Your fingers are smaller.” 

Gaara blinks once. “I can use more of them. I want to feel you.” 

Well, Lee can hardly say no when he puts it like _that_. 

Lee yanks his own fingers out with a damp squelch, and just as quickly, Gaara is slipping his thin, clever fingers inside and—Oh. _Oh._

Now this, this is the farthest thing from mechanical Lee can imagine. Gaara twists and wiggles his fingers, his thumb stroking the sensitive edge of Lee’s hole in a slow caress. He can’t quite reach deep enough to touch the spot that Lee was hoping for, but it hardly matters, because _Gaara’s fingers are inside him_ , stretching and working him open. First two, and then quickly three, and _oh_. Lee thought Gaara's fingers were small, but inside him like this everything is magnified, the feeling immense. 

He shakes. 

Gaara’s eyes drag from Lee’s lap up to his face. His chest is moving very shallowly. He scarcely seems to be breathing. 

“Do you know what it feels like?” Gaara asks suddenly, breathily. 

Lee furrows his eyebrows into a squint. Of course it feels good for him—he’s the one getting, well, fingered—but he also just had his fingers _up there_ , and it was just sort of … generically damp. Not a place his hands particularly relished being, and certainly nothing that seemed to warrant the awed expression painting Gaara’s face. 

“Yes?” he hazards. “Wet, mostly.” 

Gaara shakes his head. “No, I can _feel_ you.” He strokes his fingers in and out, in and out again, his knuckles pulling just slightly at Lee’s entrance, a gentle burn. “You’re hot inside. I can feel your pulse. You feel—” A shaky exhale. “—wonderful. Warm and alive.”

Lee clenches, suddenly and without warning. It’s quite outside of his power to stop it. 

“Oh,” Gaara gasps. His eyes search Lee’s face. He pulls his fingers almost all the way out, and when he pushes them back in, there’s four of them. The stretch and burn of it is just on the edge of too much. “It’s going to feel so good when I’m inside you.” 

Lee makes a sound that can’t even properly be construed as a word. It just bursts out of him, like the exertional cry that accompanies a particularly fierce kick. He doesn’t think he can wait anymore. 

“Gaara.” It’s almost a whimper. “Please. Now—”

Gaara’s fingers slip from him obediently, though not without a slow, harsh rub across his entrance that has him practically keening with oversensitivity. 

Lee intended to put the condom on Gaara, urged on by a faint recollection of Gaara’s warm hand sliding effortlessly down his shaft and how good it felt, but Gaara must have opened one while he wasn’t paying attention and put it on himself, because he’s already wrapped and slicked when Lee reaches for him. 

This is not going at all as Lee planned. He was supposed to be calling the shots here, making this good for Gaara, but he keeps getting sidetracked by his own insidious pleasure. He bites his lip as he positions Gaara’s thick head at his entrance, raising up on his knees. He will focus only on Gaara until he achieves orgasm or—

Gravity draws him downward. Gaara breaches him. Any thought of a self-rule evacuates his head immediately. 

His chin nearly hits his chest. His hands grab blindly for Gaara’s shoulders. 

Gaara’s lube-slick fingers clench on his hips. His eyes are shut so tight that Lee can hardly see the dark circles around them. 

Lee does not ever swear, as a matter of virtue and courtesy, but it’s a very near thing as he guides himself down Gaara’s length. He was just taking four fingers, and yet somehow it still wasn’t enough to prepare him for the shape and size of him. The girth is comfortable, but no amount of fingers could have readied him for the _depth_. He can feel his body tightening instinctively around the intrusion with every slight motion. The fullness is indescribable. 

When he finally reaches the hilt, snug up against Gaara’s hips, they both just sit there for a moment, panting. 

“Are you okay?” Gaara asks him. His voice is so rough it sounds like he’s been screaming for hours, though he’s hardly said more than a few whispered sentences. “Does it hurt?” 

Lee shakes his head rapidly, then realizes how that could be misconstrued. “Yes, I’m fine,” he says, though he doesn’t quite feel as though his lungs can expand enough to draw in all the air he needs. His voice comes out breathy. “It doesn’t hurt.” 

It really doesn’t. It’s just _full_ and _deep_. Gaara is so far inside him that Lee half-imagines he can see the shape of him through his stomach. Something about that notion is dizzying. 

Gaara’s thumbs are rubbing up and down his sides, just over his hips. He seems perfectly content to just sit still and wait for Lee to adjust, his eyes keen on Lee’s face, on his body. A hand strays across Lee’s abdomen to trace up the ridge on the bottom of Lee’s cock, all hot, shivery pleasure. It relaxes him, paradoxically, even as his balls and the muscles of his stomach seize with the sensation. 

It isn’t supposed to be about Lee’s adjustment, though. This is supposed to be about Gaara. About making sure Gaara enjoys himself as much as Lee so clearly and pathetically did last time. 

Lee braces his knees under himself and rocks upward quickly. Too quickly. His breath catches and he goes a little lightheaded. He ignores the spinning of the room, because the softest of groans leaves Gaara’s mouth at his motion. Good, Lee thinks. That’s what he’s after. 

He rocks back down again, and Gaara grazes something inside that makes Lee’s spine light up like a line of festival lanterns. He buckles forward, gasping. 

Gaara’s face is pressed to Lee’s neck, his lips soft and warm on that sensitive skin when he whispers, “Was that your prostate?”

Lee stiffens. “Please don’t call it that.” 

Gaara sits back, a wrinkle between his bare brows. He skims his hands up the backs of Lee’s ribs to rest on his shoulderblades. “What do you want me to call it?”

That, Lee doesn’t have an answer for. And in any case, he needs to focus. He can’t be getting distracted by his own little bundles of nerves, which are wholly auxiliary to the main point here. When he rises up on his knees this time, he arcs forward just slightly, just enough to take the pressure off that spot. 

The furrow on Gaara’s brow deepens. “You don’t like that?” His expression is coolly considering, as if he’s taking mental notes. 

“It’s not that.” Lee sinks back down, and, oh, even without the stroke of Gaara’s dick across that sensitive place inside him, the sensation is overwhelmingly good. He grits his teeth. “It feels—” There isn’t a word for how it feels. _Good_ doesn’t even come close. All the flowery language in the little notebook in his vest couldn’t begin to describe it. “I don’t want it to end too quickly, like last time. I want you to have the chance to enjoy it.” 

Gaara’s hands tighten on his shoulders. 

“Lee.” His voice is so serious and so sharp it could cut glass. “I _am_ enjoying it. It feels good. It feels even better when you feel good, too.” 

Lee’s fully seated on his thighs, so when Gaara pulls Lee back a bit to look at him, he shifts inside Lee and puts pressure right back up against the spot Lee’s trying to avoid. Lee tenses instinctively, which only serves to intensify that pressure, that heat. The muscles of his thighs tremble. 

“Like that?” Gaara asks. His hands drop from Lee’s shoulders to his hips. A gentle push from his fingers raises Lee and lowers him again, carefully angled. 

Pleasure rolls warm up the backs of Lee’s thighs and comes to rest somewhere at the base of his spine. He shudders hard, and beneath him he hears Gaara’s breath catch. 

“Haaah.” Gaara exhales raggedly. “Please tell me that’s good for you.” 

Lee hurries to nod, not expecting the way that the slight motions of his body light up the nerves inside him. “Yes,” he adds, because Gaara’s head is tipped back, his eyes closed. 

“Good.” 

Gaara doesn’t move for a moment, so Lee takes the initiative to begin the rocking again. It’s easier this time, now that he knows what they both like. Of course, he’d prefer if the things that Gaara liked weren’t so … intense on his end, because he’s rather quickly losing his cool. 

“Fuck, Lee,” Gaara whispers to the ceiling, as Lee picks up the pace, begins to move against him a little faster, a little harder. His fingertips are hot as brands on Lee’s hips, and as Lee hits a rhythm, Gaara’s fingers grope for his backside, digging into the flesh there, pulling Lee closer.

Gaara’s knees come up to brace against the small of Lee’s back; he curls forward and his head drops hard onto Lee’s shoulder. The effect is that he somehow ends up impossibly _deeper_ in Lee. Lee shuts his eyes tight against the sensation as he continues to rock up and down. The sight of the silvery, scarred lines down Gaara’s pale spine and the flush dripping down his shoulder blades like spilled ink is too much to bear. There’s hardly a place they aren’t touching now. Lee’s dick slides against the wiry muscle of Gaara’s stomach with every rise and fall. He’s enveloped by Gaara, engulfed, drowning. 

He’d happily go without air for the rest of his life if it meant he could keep listening to Gaara like this. 

“Yes,” Gaara whispers against Lee’s neck. His lips smack wetly between the words, his tongue darting out to lap away sweat. “Just like that. You feel so good. You’re so good. Ah, Lee—” 

Lee isn’t sure if he’s making noise, though he thinks he must be. The sensation of Gaara within him is so much— _too_ much. But he only has ears for Gaara’s words, for the wet slap of their bodies meeting, for Gaara’s harsh breaths and pitched moans. 

Lee lifts his hips high, pulls back until just the tip of Gaara’s dick is inside him, and then drives them down hard. 

Gaara bites down on the column of Lee’s neck with a groan. “That’s it. _You’re_ it. Exactly what I want, oh—” 

Heat and electricity roll through Lee like a summer storm. There has always been a part of him that has sought praise, wanted reassurance of a job well done. He just never expected that desire to take this form. Lee likes to consider himself a gentleman, but _gentlemen_ don’t writhe like this at panted obscenities. 

“Fuck _me_.” 

It’s ironic that Gaara thinks he’s the one being … _made love to_ right now, because Lee can feel his entire being rearranging itself around Gaara’s dick inside him. He may never feel whole again without Gaara within him, around him like this. His dick drips a steady stream, slicking its course along Gaara’s stomach as he rides, leaving behind a trail just as filthy as Gaara’s words. 

Everything is blood-hot and aching and all-too-sharp. He feels like he’s being turned inside out, the head of Gaara’s dick relentless on his prostate while his own dick skids across the just-right texture of Gaara’s abs. His balls draw tight against his body, a warning. 

“Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.” 

Lee stops. 

Not because he wants to, but because he’s lost control of his body completely. His orgasm hits him with the force of a tidal wave, his chin nearly cracking the crown of Gaara’s head as he clenches and shakes through it.

He trembles to stillness. When he dares to open his eyes and look down, Gaara is staring up at him with wide eyes. His pale face is bright pink. There’s a spatter of cum on his chin. 

Lee opens his mouth to apologize, goes to reach for Gaara’s face to wipe it clean. 

Before he can move, Gaara bucks up and rolls him onto his back, so Lee’s head is almost hanging off the foot of the bed. He bears down on Lee with a ferocity Lee hasn’t seen on him outside of battle, his hands like claws spreading Lee’s thighs wide open. 

It’s the work of moments before his hips are stuttering against Lee’s, grinding hard against him like he wants to merge with Lee’s body and become one with him. Lee wouldn’t mind it. Gaara’s teeth are bared against his neck and he’s gritting out a litany of curses, all, “Fuck, Lee. You— _fuck_ … So good. So—” 

Even having just come, Lee’s dick pulses at the praise growled against his throat. 

Gaara bites Lee’s shoulder hard when he comes. There will be bruises in the shape of toothmarks in the morning. Little trophies. Evidence of a claim staked. Lee shivers. 

Afterwards, Gaara just lays there on top of Lee for a moment. Their breathing slows in sync, sweat and cum sticky between them. 

Gaara finally props himself up on his elbows, looking down into Lee’s eyes. He’s a mess, cum drying flaky on his stomach, that droplet of it still hanging from his chin like an obscene pearl. His chest is patchy red where it isn’t streaked white, the shapes of his lightning-burst scar in sharp relief against the blood-darkness of his skin. 

Lee can’t imagine he looks any more composed. Sweat drips itchy from one eyebrow and trails down the shell of his ear. 

Gaara opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, then closes it again in favor of pulling out from Lee. He tosses the tied condom off the side of the bed, missing the wastebasket entirely. Lee hears it hit the stone floor with a wet slap. 

Feeling bold, Lee cranes upwards and licks the cum off Gaara’s face. He sticks his tongue out to show what he’s done before he swallows it. 

Gaara’s green pupils dilate to swallow the whole of his irises. He wraps his arms around Lee and rocks them backwards and over, until he’s lying back at the head of the bed with Lee on top of him. It’s an impulsive, almost silly gesture, warm with affection. Lee would never have expected it, and it sends an exhausted little thrill up his spine. 

“You’re amazing,” Gaara breathes into his ear, their sweaty legs tangled and Lee’s head pillowed on his tacky chest. 

It’s not nearly as disgusting as it should be. The room is pleasantly warm, and it smells like Gaara’s soap and both of their sweat and, yes, sex, but only a little bit. Outside, the sun still hasn’t quite set, the walls and sheets all orange like they’re bursting into flame. 

But even slipping towards somnolence, Lee feels there’s something missing there. Something owed. 

He kisses Gaara right in the middle of that sunburst scar and murmurs, “I’m sorry.” 

Gaara pushes all the damp, sweat-lank hair out of Lee’s face with a rough gesture of his hand. His eyes have gone from minty teal to bright green in the sunset, and he narrows them to squint down at Lee. 

“What on earth are you apologizing for?” 

“I came first again.” Lee bites his lip and ducks his head. Saying the word is almost as bad as admitting that he failed the challenge he set himself. More importantly, that he failed _Gaara_. 

Gaara boggles at him. 

“Do you think this is some kind of _endurance contest?_ ”

Lee doesn’t reply. It’s clear Gaara thinks the answer should be ‘no.’ 

Gaara rolls his head back to stare at the ceiling, exasperation written all over his features. 

“I just didn’t realize I would be so … affected by what you said,” Lee mumbles. 

Gaara purses his lips, considering. The hand he has wrapped around Lee’s waist strays down to rub across his flank, sweat smearing in its wake. 

“Is it anything I say?” he muses. “Or just certain things?” 

“Um.” Lee doesn’t quite know how to answer that. 

Gaara’s fingers trace the length of a particularly deep scar along Lee’s hip. His voice is completely uninflected as he recites, “Chicken gizzards. Council meeting. Saba zushi. Prickly pear.” 

Lee bites back a smile, both from the ticklishness of Gaara’s fingertips now trailing his ribs and the absurdity of his statements. 

“No?” Gaara hums. “How about this?” His voice drops, low and husky. “That felt wonderful. If I could sleep, all I would dream about is you on top of me. I want to never leave this bed again, as long as you’re in it. I would write your Hokage and tell him you defected to Suna if it meant I could fuck you like that every day.” 

Heat climbs Lee’s neck and paints itself across his nose and cheeks. He rubs his face against Gaara’s chest. Despite himself, his spent dick twitches at the words. 

“That’s too much,” he mumbles. 

“Is it?” Gaara’s still staring at the ceiling with an utterly neutral expression. 

“How can you just say those things with a straight face?” Lee whines. 

“They’re all true.” The corner of Gaara’s lip curls wickedly. Before he even speaks, Lee can tell he’s gearing up to tease him. “Besides, didn’t you say you wanted me to enjoy myself?” 

“And torturing me is how you enjoy yourself?” Lee pinches one of Gaara’s nipples. He means to scold him, but Gaara just shivers and curls his toes before settling further back into the blankets. He tilts his head down to look Lee in the eye. His expression is just faintly sarcastic, though Lee suspects nobody but himself would even be able to tell. 

“How can it be torture when it felt so good?”

Lee just buries his face in Gaara’s chest and groans.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget, [GaaLee Bingo](https://gaalee-bingo.tumblr.com) is still open for prompts through Sept. 30th, and bingo cards will be posted on Oct. 1st! There's still space for more prompts, so please send them if you have them!


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